


You Shouldn't Have

by 2babyturtles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Canon Compliant, Ficlet, Gen, Honesty, Pain, Triggers, Tumblr Prompt, damage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 02:57:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12949809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2babyturtles/pseuds/2babyturtles
Summary: John's abuse in the mortuary brings flashbacks and a painful conversation.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I want to say a couple of things here.
> 
> First, that this is inspired by (although probably not based on) a Tumblr's (Tumblrer's?) post: "I’d love to read about Sherlock going into full PTSD-mode when John starts hitting him, shutting down completely and basically going comatose, to the point where it stops John in his tracks and he starts panicking and finally understands exactly what Sherlock must have gone through over the great hiatus. Cue serious hurt/comfort! Feel free to run away with this prompt (and get rid of Culverton however you see fit). Just please link me to what you write!"
> 
> Second, that this is important. The scene this was based on, the infamous mortuary scene in TLD, sparked massive controversy. Social media has since featured both sides of the argument, so I wanted to weigh in myself.
> 
> We are here because Sherlock is REAL for us. Because fanfiction is REAL. That scene was one of my favorites, not because it's good or because it's okay, but because it's real. Because there was a little bit of myself on the screen in both characters there. And more importantly, there was a little bit of myself that recovered on the screen. WE, the fans, need this because we get to shape the recovery that we maybe never got ourselves.
> 
> So please recognize that this is not undertaken lightly. This is deliberate, careful, and brutally honest. This is entirely raw.
> 
> Ultimately, this is fanfiction.

The first hit just stings. His eyes sting and water as he looks up at the face of a man who’s always loved him so well. Now, instead of the warm forgiveness that usually finds itself at home there, there is only anger.

“Is this a game? A bloody game?”

The second hit brings a horribly familiar ringing in his ears and a metallic taste in his mouth. He remembers chains and hot pokers. He remembers the scars that tangle across the skin on his back.

The third and fourth hit probably hurt. He is vaguely aware of the pain of a kick to his stomach. But he is no longer in the mortuary. He is in Serbia. He is in the darkest prisons. He wonders why no one stops the man screaming until he realizes it’s his own voice. But he’s not really screaming and he’s not really in Serbia.

 

* * *

 

 

“I want to say that I didn’t know,” John begins, clenching his fists awkwardly. Their conversation had to wait until they arrived home, but now there don’t seem to be any words. “But I think I did.”

“You have ever been cleverer than you think,” Sherlock responds slowly, sipping his tea. He finds himself avoiding those familiar eyes, afraid of the anger that has taken hold their more recently.

Somehow, Baker Street seems unfamiliar and cold. There’s little comfort to be found in the gentle flames that lick the fireplace, or the scent of Mrs. Hudson’s laundry soap that wafts through the flat after a fresh load of laundry.

“Not clever enough,” he responds. “I shouldn’t have… I never should’ve….”

“No,” Sherlock responds, surprised by the strength of his voice. “No you shouldn’t have.”


	2. And Me You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is an expansion of Chapter 1, as per the Tumblrerer's request and the thoughts of those who read it. A great big thank you to all of you for that.

There are hands on Sherlock’s chest as he’s thrown against the metal doors of the mortuary. His mind reels, not understanding. He’s not sure whether it’s the drugs, the fear, or the anger, but something seems to break in him and he’s suddenly not sure what’s happening. He’s waving a scalpel at a goblin of a man and he’s being pushed back, away from anyplace where he could do any harm. He recognizes both of these things and can’t tell which is happening first.

A familiar face in his vision but he can’t seem to place it. It threatens a loving sensation in his stomach but there’s too much else going on in his system and he can’t respond to it. Instead, his very skin seems alive and bursting, as if it might crawl away and leave only the exposed skeleton of the man he’s become.

He doesn’t see John’s hand as it swings a crimson slap against his cheek. The images of so many previous experiences burn in his memory and suddenly, it might be anyone in front of him. Molly, Mycroft, Irene, and other images of John flood his mind and he’s not hardly sure where he is anymore. It’s no surprise that he’s unaware when a fist is thrown next.

The first hit just burns. His eyes sting and water as he looks back up at the face of a man who’s always loved him so well. Now, instead of the warm forgiveness that usually finds itself at home there, there is only anger.

 _A dead woman._  
A blonde with a baby and a lifetime of opportunities to love the man he loves. A gunshot that ends her life too soon and the keening of a man who no longer loves him at all.

 _A needle.  
_ The desperate cravings for something to take him away from a world he cannot stand to live in anymore. Some part of him knows that if he wanted to really die, he could simply overdose. He supposes it’s silly to cling to the hope that things will get better, all the while ensuring he’s much much worse.

 _A scalpel.  
_ The only weapon that makes sense in a mortuary, and the only thing in arm’s reach. But did he pick it up or did the goblin man? The serial killer?

Something’s not right and his mind reels again as these images flood through his mind as if on replay. He wonders at the environment for a moment, thinking how much better it would to be if he were behind one of the gleaming metal doors and among the dozens of other corpses. Some part of him is screaming, danger blaring in his mind and shutting down his body. He’s aware for a moment as his vision slips, but then his mind slips, too and he’s suddenly lost.

“Is this a game?” a familiar voice shouts. He knows the owner of the voice but the voice itself seems so cold and distant now, and he can’t help wondering if he really knows the speaker at all. “A bloody game?” the man repeats.

The second hit brings a horribly familiar ringing in his ears and a metallic taste in his mouth. He knows it’s blood but that knowledge does little to change his state. He only begins calculating whether it’s blood from his nose, leaking into his mouth, blood from his stomach or throat coming up, or simply the hot, raw flavor of fear searing his tongue.

Unbidden, the memories of chains and hot pokers flood him. It’s not his mind that is filled with the pain or the fear, but his body. Every inch of his skin burns. The scars that tangle across the skin on his back suddenly seem fresh and he remembers the angry swearing of brutish men as they lashed him.

He remembers the inevitable shutting down of his mind as they beat him then, and he sinks there now. There’s no relief in the present and it’s better to sink just out of reach. Of course, he might never be able to come back out of the depths of himself but if that’s what it takes to escape this pain then that’s what he will do.

The third and fourth hit probably hurt. He is vaguely aware of the pain of a kick to his stomach and wonders at what point he collapsed to the ground. There’s still yelling and the distinct banging of flesh against metal as John’s hands swing into the metal doors in time with the landing of the next kick.

But Sherlock is no longer in the mortuary. He is in Serbia. He is in the darkest prisons. He wonders why no one stops the man screaming until he realizes it’s his own voice. But he’s not really screaming and he’s not really in Serbia.

He’s vaguely aware that staff members have swarmed the room and that his attacker is being pulled away.

_Attacker?_

A name dances at the tip of his tongue and when he looks up, he sees the face that goes with the name. It’s a name he’s said so many times and it’s a face he’s seen laugh, cry, scream, and much more.

John Watson. Dr. John Watson. Dr. Watson. Dr. John Watson. John Watson. John. John. John. Dr. Watson. Dr. John Watson. John. John Watson. Dr. John Watson. John Watson. John. John. John. John. John. John. John. John.

John.

The name feels poisonous and the face is angry.

Another voice, higher and uglier, tumbles from the mouth of the serial killer, as though it curls around his lips that want so desperately to smile at the interaction. “Please. Please, please, please, no violence,” he begs, undoubtedly for show. His hands fly up uselessly, encouraging the staff members to break up the interaction. He peers at Sherlock with dancing eyes and a rigid erection that he hides beneath a protruding stomach.

Sherlock can’t remember how he knows or why he knows that this man is a serial killer, or what makes him think that he gets off to this sort of thing. Cold, sick fear settles in his stomach as he sinks further.

Lifting his eyes, he wishes so desperately he could fix what’s happening. A Serbian prison cell flashes in front of his eyes and he finds himself screaming, except that no sound is escaping his lips. Suddenly, the angry look in that familiar face changes, twisting into one of terror and concern.

John shrugs away from the staff members who let him go reluctantly. Sherlock has seen images of birds when they get scared and seem to wilt, and in this moment, John seems almost like a bird. He seems smaller, but whether it’s the crushing guilt or the crushing fear that wraps him in a blanket of impotence is unclear. Somehow, he seems more like a predatory animal than anything else right now and the image of a hawk, ripping the head from its victim as it clutches it in its talons, springs unbidden to Sherlock’s mind. He cowers away from him.

“Sherlock?” he asks. He’s on his knees but it is too late and Sherlock is slipping. There is panic mirrored between them now and slowly, ever so slowly, the mortuary fades until there is only blackness. “Sherlock?”

“What’s wrong, Dr. Watson?” that ugly voice chimes again. There’s a number of voices now, though, and that ugly voice is nearly obscured by the shouts and questions.

That familiar, scared face swims into view again, but somehow it isn’t comforting. Cold fear, like ice in his veins, terrifies him and he finds himself shrinking further into the relative safety of his mind.

 _Judgment._  
Condemnation.  
Vilification.  
Denunciation.  
Criticism.  
Evaluation.  
Hatred.  
Hatred.  
Hatred.

There is no doubt that that face will never again love him. It couldn’t, could it? He can’t be loved anymore. He is merely the victim at the hands of terrorists, the subject of cruel games. He is not a man anymore, and he is no longer of the world as it fades around him. At last, as if diving into a pool of cold relief, he disappears, too. 

* * *

 

Fear grips John’s throat and he struggles for breath as he watches Sherlock’s eyes fade. Something isn’t right. _Of course it’s not right._ He wants to scream when he sees the blood on his knuckles and recognition of what he’s done leaks into him, poisoning his bones.

“Dr. Watson?” Culverton Smith asks again, threatening to unleash something much more dangerous in John.

A snarl pushes out of John’s throat but he only glares at the short goblin of a man for a moment before turning his attention back to Sherlock. Forcing himself to focus, he pulls his medical knowledge to the forefront of his mind. _Just a patient._

He first checks Sherlock’s ribs, chest, and throat, ensuring that there are no obvious broken bones. He notes with shock the swelling around Sherlock’s eyes and throat, and the hideous purple color in his neck, although his face is pale. John reaches to move his old friend to a position flat on his back where he can more easily assess him.

However, Sherlock responds almost violently. A cry escapes his lips, high at first but lowering into almost a growl. His hands shake as he puts them up to defend himself, albeit weakly, and John flutters uselessly at his side. His eyes are dark, though, and John doubts that Sherlock is even aware of his own actions at this point.

“Sherlock?” he whispers, peering at his friend hopelessly.

_Friend? Companion? Familiar? Confidant? Associate? Partner? Friend._

As carefully as possible, he reaches forward again, this time catching Sherlock’s wrist in his hand. “Christ,” he murmurs, surprised by Sherlock’s pulse. The detective’s breath comes in rapid gasps and his nostrils flare wildly.

John hesitates, not sure how to manage a situation like this, particularly when it’s the great Sherlock Holmes who is the subject of such terror. It only takes a moment’s hesitation, though, because Sherlock seems almost to pass out then. Thankfully, his breath and pulse return to a more normal state when he loses consciousness.

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I want to say that I didn’t know,” John begins, clenching his fists awkwardly. Their conversation had to wait until they arrived home, but now there don’t seem to be any words. “But I think I did.”

When Culverton Smith had been caught in the throes of murdering Sherlock Holmes, they’d done a quick examination to make sure there were no other plans in place, like poison or needles in the bed. Sherlock’s eyes had been dark at first but he’d turned positively black when the nursing staff revealed thick knots of scars across his back and arms.

Of all the people in Sherlock’s life, John couldn’t help feeling that it should’ve been himself who noticed the signs of PTSD in his friend. Not that he’d been much of a friend. The same self-loathing that had been pressing in on him since Mary’s death seemed only exacerbated by the thought, and he’d excused himself from the room as soon as was appropriate. Now, there is no place to go.

Despite the bleak confrontation ahead of him, John can’t help honesty. It seems much too late to lie either to himself or to Sherlock. He wonders whether it’s too late for apologies and make-ups, too.

“You have ever been cleverer than you think,” Sherlock responds slowly, sipping his tea. He finds himself avoiding those familiar eyes, afraid of the anger that has taken hold there more recently.

Somehow, Baker Street seems unfamiliar and cold. There’s little comfort to be found in the gentle flames that lick the fireplace, or the scent of Mrs. Hudson’s laundry soap that wafts through the flat after a fresh load of laundry.

“Not clever enough,” he responds. “I shouldn’t have… I never should’ve….”

“No,” Sherlock responds, surprised by the strength of his voice. “No you shouldn’t have.”

The silence stretches between them for a long time and the world goes on. The fire crackles, Mrs. Hudson whistles a jolly tune downstairs, and in all, the universe seems prepared to undermine the tension in their chests. There’s never quite words to smooth over the guilt and shame they both feel, particularly when some part of them each still blames the other.

“I think it’s fair to say that neither of us has ever been entirely fair to the other,” Sherlock eventually manages, working hard to keep his eyes level. It’s these small moments that make him grateful for his ability to be nearly inhuman, and also aware of precisely how human he really is.

With a pounding heart and stinging eyes, he feels small and vulnerable. John feels the same, and looks back at Sherlock longingly, his eyebrows contorted into a grimace that hasn’t yet found his mouth.

“No,” he responds. “I suppose not.”

“We can’t go on like this.”

“No.”

Slowly, their silence shifts into something more pointed, as if their anger is suddenly at the surface. Neither man can quite put his finger on what angers him the most, though, and neither is prepared to speak about it. Sherlock finally settles on a word and holds it in his mind closely as he stares at his old friend, wondering what in the world had changed so much to bring them here. _Betrayal._

John seems equally as engaged with his own thoughts, absorbed by a process that takes longer than Sherlock’s. For the first time, though, it’s not because he’s slower, but because he’s angrier. _Deceit,_ he decides.

“You didn’t kill Mary,” John whispers, finally looking away. The intricacies of his interlocked hands suddenly seem fascinating and he keeps his eyes there instead of venturing anywhere else.

Sherlock is quiet before speaking. “I tried to kill myself,” he responds. “Not in so many words, but certainly my injected cocktails were of a twofold purpose. Engaging you in my salvation was the primary goal, and I admit to hoping it would work. But if I died along the way, I think I’d’ve found no fault with that.”

When John looks up, his eyes are wet and glistening. “Me, too,” he murmurs. He ignores Sherlock’s sharp inhale and goes on: “On both sides. I wanted to die, although I hated to leave Rosie behind. But I honestly thought it might be best for her anyway. More, though, I wanted you dead.”

Hot, burning, bubbling anger fills Sherlock’s chest and he finds himself nearly incapable of restraining a scream. He wants to recoil, curling back in on himself, but he wants to lash out. Something in the back of his mind calms him before the moment escalates. “Explain, please,” he demands softly.

John grimaces and suddenly looks very old. His eyes are hollow and his throat protrudes as he droops. The deep lines in his face no longer look like those of a man who spent time under an Afghan sun, but those of a man who has hated himself so much that it has begun to leak into the world around him.

“I wanted everything to be easy. It was never easy without you, but hating you was harder than losing you. Knowing you were here and that I couldn’t reach you. At least when you were gone…”

“When I was being tortured, you mean? Yes, I can quite see how that would be preferable to making up. At least if I were out of sight and out of mind, then you wouldn’t have to swallow your pride for more than the moment it took to lay flowers at my grave.”

John gaps, stuttering for words. “That’s not—I didn’t mean that. That’s not fair.”

“Was this fair, John?” Sherlock snarls. He moves as if to push himself to his feet but grimaces at the inevitable pain in his side and settles for sliding forward instead. The effect is possibly more poignant though, and John looks away. “Was any of this fair? No, of course not. Whatever I’ve done, whoever I’ve been, none of it justifies you to be any of this.

“I don’t mean to say that I’m blameless. Far from it, and you can be assured of my own responsibility in this matter. Regardless, you cannot go on acting this way.”

Glaring, John sets his jaw sharply. “I lost everything, Sherlock.”

“No, you pushed everything away. What will you do when Rosie grows up and acts just as insolent as I do?”

“She wouldn’t be like that.” Words pour from John’s mouth in hot waves of nausea and he swallows hard after every sentence. “She’s not like you.”

“No, like her mother then? Like you?” Sherlock sighs, dropping the anger from his face nearly as quickly as he allowed it to appear there. “It’s not a pleasant thought, John, but I do have this feeling from time to time that we might all just be human.”

John laughs bitterly. “Even you?” he mocks.

“No. Even you.”

For what seems like several minutes, they stare at each other with unwavering anger. Slowly, it turns to sadness as they realize they are more angry with themselves than each other. Eventually, it turns to hopelessness, and they stare at each other with empty eyes and desperate frowns. John speaks first, interrupting the lines of thought that run deep behind Sherlock’s scowl.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Sherlock sighs and leans back in his chair, closing his eyes against a world that seems very cruel right now. “Me, too, John. Sincerely and for everything. I have dragged you into my life against your will and blame you for wanting to leave it. I have been cruel, calculating, and cold, retaining our friendship for my own pleasures and rarely thinking of yours.”

“Sherlock, I want help.” Pushing himself to his feet as though pacing suddenly seems preferable to the lackluster that comes with sitting, John turns his eyes away from his friend. He sweeps the room, wishing there was some answer to find in the dirty old flat. “I’ve had anger sitting in me so deeply since I came back from Afghanistan and I can’t keep living like this.”

“No,” Sherlock agrees, “you can’t. _We_ can’t.”

“We?”

Sherlock just nods. “If you’ll have me, there will always be ‘we’. The question, then, is ‘how?’.”

Pressing his lips together into a thin frown, John continues pacing. “I’ve no idea,” he answers honestly. “I think that we both need help, though. If I may?” Sherlock nods, gesturing for him to continue. “We’ve both shown great propensity for self-destruction. I’m going to hurt more people or hurt myself if I don’t find a way to get rid of this anger and you’re going to kill yourself, possibly taking others with you, if you don’t learn to break these addictions that drive you.”

Sherlock cocks his head slowly, processing John’s sentiment. On the surface, he agrees, but there’s something nagging at him. “Have you ever had an addiction, John?” The doctor shakes his head. “I am not addicted to drugs. I am trying desperately to escape the world that exists inside my head. I do not need rehab or drug counseling, I need something else.”

“I might say the same,” John admits, reluctantly returning to his chair. “I’m not angry, not really. I just don’t know what to do with…this. This hatred.”

“Self-hatred?”

“Self-hatred.”

The familiar silence encroaches again, and for a moment John wonders if they’ll ever get past this. Everything used to be so easy. Or perhaps, like everything else in life, it never really was at all. This time, Sherlock speaks first, his voice so quiet it’s as if he’s loath to ruin the silence.

“I spent two years demolishing Moriarty’s network. I was beaten, tortured, starved, and abused. I never said anything because I didn’t want to acknowledge that the air of those years hung around me like a cold death,” he explains. His eyes are sharp, glowing with the burning fuel of barely restrained anger. “I don’t often have panic attacks, but rarely am I induced to do so. There are few things in modern London that can trigger flashbacks of a Serbian prison cell.”

“But when I—“

“Yes.”

John sighs inwardly, recognizing that it’s his turn to speak. “I loved Mary,” he starts. “Well, I was in love with her at least. I didn’t love her very well. There were so many things that I could’ve done differently and so many reasons to apologize but I never took the opportunities. When she was gone, I realized I never would have another chance. I couldn’t blame you for that, not really. But I wasn’t ready to blame myself.”

“You didn’t have to blame yourself, John. She didn’t die by your hands.”

He laughs, almost finding real humor in it. “No, I suppose she didn’t. But I blamed myself for so much else that it was easy to take that on, too. I find you…infuriating. And impossible.”

“Adjectives I fulfill aptly,” Sherlock responds, a soft smirk on his lips. “I can point out more than a few specific situations in which I have utterly failed you.”

“And me you. Neither of us are blameless,” he points out again. “I think that’s the thing, though. We’ve never really talked like this before, have we?”

Sherlock grimaces and sinks down in his chair, suddenly looking very tired. He shakes his head and runs his fingers through his hair. “No, and I find it entirely uncomfortable if I’m honest.”

This time, John really does laugh. “We both have a long way to go,” he admits. “But, if you’ll have me, I think that we could go there together.”

Dipping his head slowly, Sherlock breathes the first gentle breath he’s taken in a long time. “I forgive you entirely, John.”

With the faintest trace of a real smile carving its way into John’s aged face, he breathes as well. “And me you.”

 


End file.
